


Roleplay

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [38]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Sherlock is a stalker, inappropriate places to have sex, john is a ranger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompts.</p><p>John keeps disappearing and Sherlock wants to know where.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roleplay

The first week it happens, Sherlock doesn’t really notice it. John disappears sometimes. It’s just the way they are. Sherlock will open his eyes and John will be gone. For a walk, a drink at the pub with Mike, once even a film with Sarah. “Just friends,” he had said afterwards when Sherlock smelled the familiar perfume and cocked a dubious eyebrow at him. “I  _can_  have friends, you know.” 

Not that it matters. It  _doesn’t_  matter, Sherlock tells himself, and goes back to his experiments without a blink. John can do what he likes, after all.

The second week it happens he notices because Lestrade calls at nine at night with a murder and Sherlock, babbling excitedly the whole way, doesn’t notice John’s not behind him till he’s in the cab alone. He doesn’t text. He shouldn’t have to. John should be  _here._  What use is he if he can’t even be around for a murder?

When John himself calls at eleven thirty, Sherlock ignores it. He’s not mad, he tells himself. He just doesn’t need the help. And when Sherlock arrives back home at four in the morning, John is in bed. Sleeping. Sherlock feels a swell of indignation in his chest and the next day when John finally corners him, asking why Sherlock hadn’t called him, he just sneers and says, “Really, John. It’s not as if you actually do anything.”

It’s three days before either of them talk to each other again. Five before things can really be said to be back to normal. On the sixth, another case comes in and there are wild chases and breathtaking deductions and they stumble home at the end of it, exactly where they should be.

Sherlock sleeps that night, better than he has in weeks. He’s up first the next morning and he waits until he hears John moving upstairs before he makes tea. It’s a quiet day. He spends it in front of his microscope and with his violin, and for a short time sprawled beside John on the sofa in front of the telly. It’s a good day, and he doesn’t really know why because he hadn’t actually accomplished anything. But he’s happy and things are good and he idly wonders if there’s anything else on the telly John would like to watch.

"How about I rent a film for tomorrow?" John asks. He is smiling and unwound, utterly relaxed against the leather arm on the other end of the sofa.

"Tomorrow?" Sherlock asks, his eyes already narrowing.

"Yeah, I’ve got to leave in a bit."

Sherlock stares at him and John seems to realise he’s said something wrong because he starts to shift uncomfortably and Sherlock can trace the path of each muscle, tightening and tensing along his back.

"Right," Sherlock says, and looks away.

"Everything okay?" John asks, his voice careful.

Sherlock smiles brightly at him. “Why wouldn’t I be? Make sure you lock the door behind you. You left it open the other day.”

"What? No I didn’t."

"It’s fine, John. It’s not a big deal. It’s just that I think I’ll go to bed soon and it would be terrible if you came home to find Mrs Hudson and me murdered in our sleep."

"Sherlock, Jesus Christ. I didn’t leave the bloody door—"

"I said it was fine! We all make mistakes. Some more than others. Don’t worry about it, John. I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose." And with a last tight-lipped grin, Sherlock goes to his room and closes the door behind him.

He follows John that night, of course.

John either doesn’t know or doesn’t care, because he leads Sherlock in a straight line to his destination, a short block of flats on the Southbank. He hovers nearby, watching to see what buzzer John presses, and feels a smug satisfaction at how easy this is when it turns out to be a back-facing flat on the first floor. Clambering onto the tiny balcony is easy, and he crouches in front of the lighted window, shielded by the dark.

It takes a minute for him to realise what he’s seeing. There are a group of nine people, out of which he only recognises three other than John: Mike, Molly, and Sally Donovan. They are all sitting around a table and Sherlock sees papers being shuffled around and open books that he can’t see the content of. Even as he watches they all look towards the front door, and he watches as Anderson walks in, relaxed and mild looking, completely transformed from the usual scowling toad Sherlock is accustomed to. Anderson walks to the table and pulls a large, bulky looking cloth bag out of his coat pocket and tosses it into the middle of the table. The others dive for it and though Sherlock can’t hear them talking, he sees the laughter, the playful tussling as the bag is opened and dice come pouring out. Of all colours and shapes and sizes. There is a general scramble as several of the people at the table start sorting through the heap, John and Molly among them, and Sherlock sees the grins they exchange, the soundless words, far too friendly, and all of a sudden Sherlock realises just how close the two of them are sitting. And even as he watches, as if in slow motion, Molly reaches out and touches John’s thigh.

He doesn’t realise he’s pounding on the glass until everyone is looking at him. He registers the varying degrees of surprise and horror in the faces of Mike, Sally, and Anderson. He swears he sees trepidation in Molly and feels a fierce glaring triumph at it. John, however, just stares at him on the other side of the glass as if he’s gone mad.

He sees words being exchanged, John snapping something at Sally. One of the women he doesn’t recognise comes over and he hears the latch on the sliding glass door disengage and as soon it does he does he pulls the door open.

Everyone is staring at him, silent.

“John,” Sherlock says, with an immense amount of dignity. “I need to talk to you.”

Nine people exchange glances with each other. John just looks at him, mouth slightly agape.

“Hello, Sherlock,” says Mike after a cautious minute. “How is it, mate?”

“You can’t just knock on the bloody door like a normal human being, can you?” Sally sneers.

John glances at them both before standing up and Sherlock watches Molly’s hand fall away as he does.

“Hey, Sophie. Can I use your bedroom for a sec?”

The woman who had unlocked the balcony door is still standing slightly behind and to the left of Sherlock, and he sees her nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” she says carefully. “Sure, John.”

“Thanks. Won’t be a minute. Sherlock?” John moves towards a door standing ajar on the far side of the flat and after a last dignified look around at their audience, he follows.

It’s the epitome of middle-class luxury, room enough for a large chest of drawers, a queen size bed, and space enough to just comfortably walk around them. Sherlock runs a quick eye around the room as John shuts the door behind them with a click.

For a second there is absolute silence, then the sound of quiet laughter and several voices speaking at once from the other side of the door. John stands with his back to it and takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for something difficult.

“Sherlock,” he says, and stops. He frowns and clears his throat. “Sherlock,” he tries again. “Er. Why are you here?”

Sherlock glares at him. What is he doing here? Surely this is self-evident. “You lied,” he snapped.

John’s eyes widen. There is a minute when Sherlock swears he sees fear flicker across that indomitable face, but it’s gone in a second and John is ducking his head, moving away from the door to pace in the narrow space between the bed and the wall.

“Well?” Sherlock demands, all his hurt and indignation rising up in him, clipping at his words.

“Sherlock. Jesus. I didn’t—it wasn’t a lie.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

John looks up at him and Sherlock sees the flushed face, the wide terror in his eyes. “How could I have told you? Jesus Christ, Sherlock. How did you even—God, no, sorry. Stupid question. Of course you know. Of bloody course. Jesus Christ, I’m such an idiot.” And with a growl of frustration he collapses onto the bed, letting his face fall in his hands.

Sherlock stares at him, torn between uncertainty and satisfaction. On the one hand, it’s nice to see John so repentant about not telling him where he was going every week. On the other hand, this complete breakdown seems a bit of an overreaction. But trust John to become dramatic at the drop of a hat. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and though he can’t see John’s face, he notices the fine tremble running through him and he feels a stab of regret. Clearly this means far more to John than it does to him.

“Oh, relax,” Sherlock says, forcing himself to sound casual. He strides over and settles himself next to John, patting him awkwardly on the back three times and trying not to notice the way John flinches back from the contact. “It’s just a bit of…of…dragons and daggers. Nothing to be ashamed of. Perfectly sound and healthy people have been known to uh…involve themselves in this sort of activity all the time.”

Beside him, John’s face reappears only to stare at Sherlock and there’s that look again, the  _Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking loon_  look, and Sherlock feels the resentment creep back in. He was trying to be understanding about this ridiculous hobby and John can’t even be properly grateful. He’s about to get up and storm from the room, the flat, the building, London, the world, whatever as long as he can slam a few doors along the way, when John suddenly starts to laugh. A low wheezy chuckle that Sherlock’s only ever heard from him before that one time he’d been stabbed and Sherlock had found him, crouched on an alley floor with a hand in his side, trying to keep from bleeding out.

“Oh my god,” John says. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. You think it’s the game. Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock glares at him. He’s confused and he hates being confused. Beside him, John continues to laugh.

“As difficult as it might be for you, I would appreciate it if you could at least attempt to be rational.”

“Oh god, rational,” John says, and laughs harder.

Sherlock glowers. This is ridiculous. He feels ridiculous and John is acting ridiculous and he doesn’t understand anything about this situation and he’s about to stand up and walk out when John’s hand clutches at his arm, holding him there.

“John,” Sherlock says, and is about to request that John unhand him immediately, when John’s other hand shoots out, fingers gripping at the collar of his coat, dragging him down, and there is a horrified, fascinated, roaring sort of silence as everything in the world stops all at once and John, eyes closed and face filled with fear, with hope, with relief, leans up and kisses him.

It is slow and dry and incredibly soft, and Sherlock swears it lasts forever, which is nonsense of course because he’s stopped breathing somewhere along the way and no one can hold their breath for that long. He’s briefly aware of something nonsensical about that thought but he can’t quite figure out where it went wrong and he has a brief, luminous moment when he realises it doesn’t actually matter when his brain just shuts down entirely and the last conscious thought he has is,  _John is kissing me._

And then there is nothing. There are lips, there is breath. There are sounds, small and wordless and wanting. There are fingers and tongues and the soft give of a mattress under his knees, the palms of his hands, and the solid heat of a body beneath his, arching up, dragging him down. And John,  _oh god John,_ he is infinitely soft, incredibly present, and Sherlock finds himself saying his name, over and over again, as if hearing it for the first time, readjusting himself to the feel of it on his lips, the way it tastes, redefining everything he thought it meant.

“Sherlock,” John says, and it’s the quietest murmuration, and Sherlock hears his name the same way he’s always heard it, and he wonders,  _oh god, how long?_

“Sherlock. This doesn’t—you don’t have to—”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock says, and kisses him again, and this time when he presses his body down he can feel the strong line of something pressing up against him, hard and insistent, and he thinks,  _oh, that’s new._  He grinds down with his hips and he tastes John’s whimper with his tongue.

“ _Please,”_  John breathes, and Sherlock grinds down again and that sound, Sherlock wants to hear it again, he wants to drag it from John and absorb it, hide it away in a safe corner where he can play it over and over and over again.  _“Please!”_

Sherlock smiles against his mouth and with a heave he rolls them over. John makes a surprised sound as he finds himself suddenly on top.

“Show me,” Sherlock says, and John looks down at him with wide, frantic eyes. “John. Show me what you need from me.”

He sees the doubt in John’s eyes, the fear lurking beneath the haze of need, the question there unanswered. So Sherlock answers it. He grips John’s hips and drives his pelvis upwards and John gasps, his mouth open, the breath of a sound coming out of him.

“Oh god,” he says. “Sherlock. We don’t have to—”

“You can’t say that after you’ve kissed me, John.”

The ghost of a smile and Sherlock thrusts up again and John groans. “Don’t laugh.”

“John.”

“God. Christ, okay,” John sighs and bends forward so he is laying over Sherlock, resting on his elbows, and he kisses him, slow and sweet and long. When he pulls back, they’re both flushed and breathless, and Sherlock aches he is so hard.

“John,” he says, low and warningly, and there’s a huff of breath against his ear.

“Sherlock,” John says. “Please. Put your finger in me.”

Sherlock’s entire brain lights up at the words. He makes a noise, rough and wanting and he almost flips them again, the need to push John into the bed and make him his so strong. It’s the trepidation in John’s face that stops him, the uncertain fear of his own needs, the terror of the urges of his own body and what Sherlock will think of them. He takes a breath and calms himself, meeting John’s fear with his own naked want, uncontrolled in his eyes.

“God, yes,” Sherlock groans and kisses him, wraps his arms around John, who is shaking again on top of him with too much tension, too much everything, and he holds him, hands kneading, rubbing, calming, and he can feel when the body above him begins to relax, when John’s lips are hot and needy against his own, and only then does he slide his hands down. John moans into his mouth when Sherlock cups his arse in hands, pulling him up and against him, and when Sherlock’s right hand slips in under the waist of John’s pants he gives a whimper and his back arches and he presses his arse up into the air, wordlessly begging as his breath speeds against Sherlock’s lips.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, please, please.”

“God, yes,” Sherlock says. “I want to be inside you, John. I want you to feel me inside you,” and on the words he presses in, a single finger pushing in past John’s spread cheeks and into that tiny hot hole, empty and offered against his demand.

John’s cry is muffled against his neck. Sherlock doesn’t push, not without lube, but he leaves the tip there, just inside John, wiggling it back and forth so that his presence there on the inside of John’s body is utterly unmistakeable.

The effect on John is immediate and frantic. He pushes back, his arse pressing against Sherlock’s hand, trying to force it deeper, force it inside him. He is panting and the words against Sherlock’s ears are an endless stream of pleas, begging him for more, to be inside him, to fill him and stuff him and fuck him and Sherlock whispers and pets him, trying to calm him, to make him breathe. But John is bucking against him now, trying to penetrate himself with that single point of contact, his hips jerking and the sounds against Sherlock’s neck are getting louder and Sherlock knows he has to end this before they’re discovered. It feels like they’ve been here for lifetimes but the sound of laughter and conversation from the other side of the door is unabated.

“John,” he moans, because he needs to come too. He’s so hard and the pressure of John, up and down, trying to fuck himself between Sherlock’s finger and the hard line of his cock against his belly, is getting to be too much. “John,” he says again. “God, John. I need to take you home. I need you home and god, I’m going to fill you then, John. I’m going to stuff you full and it won’t be my fingers. It’ll be my cock, John. It’s huge. Can you feel it, John, pushing against you? I’m going to put that inside you. I’m going to fuck you with it and you’ll be begging me for it. God, I’m going to make you beg, even harder than you are now. I can’t wait, John. I can’t wait to be inside you. Come for me, John. Come so I can take you home and fuck you properly.”

Sherlock feels it the second before it happens, when the frantic pumping of John’s hips suddenly speeds up and he can feel the rim of John’s hole clenching around the tip of his finger. At the very last second, he reaches up and presses his hand against John’s mouth, and even as he does, John gives a muffled shout and comes, his hips jerking uncontrollably and his hole clenching, grasping and greedy and wanting.

And oh god, it’s gorgeous. John, his John, utterly undone. Sherlock can feel him falling to pieces in his arms, every muscle unwinding until he is limp and still and his breath is a shuddering sob in Sherlock’s ear.

“Sherlock,” he whispers. “Oh god, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock moans back. “My John.”

“You’re not—you didn’t—”

“No. Didn’t you hear me, John? I’m going to take you home now.”

And Sherlock feels the shiver that runs through John, his entire frame tightening and falling limp at once. He feels his finger, still settled just inside John’s hole, squeezed by grasping muscle.

“God, Sherlock,” John sighs. “God, yes.”


End file.
